


A Surprising Lullaby

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8533063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: (Originally part of a single post of Tumblr ficlets that just got too unwieldy.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally part of a single post of [Tumblr](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/) ficlets that just got too unwieldy.)

There’s a haunting melody, a melancholic progression of notes, filling the space in his head, drawing him in. They’re coming from a violin. He’s moving through a house that’s his but isn’t his, searching out the source, certain he’s found it with every corner he turns, but it seems to drift out ahead of him, always the same distance away, always just in the next room. **  
**

“Sherlock? Is that you?” John thinks he’s speaking at a normal volume, but his voice is only a whisper. “Sherlock?” he tries again, but it’s still a whisper, and the notes are starting to sound strange now, and there’s a staircase in front of him that wasn’t there a second ago, and somewhere in the back of his head he begins to realize he’s dreaming.

So he freezes in front of the weird new staircase, closes his eyes in the dream, and wills himself through the hypnagogic fog until he finally awakens and sits up, in the home he knows is his own.

Except he can still hear the notes.

He blinks and scrubs a hand through his hair to dissipate the last fuzzy sensations of the dream. Sherlock is, in fact, playing the violin in the sitting room, but he’s using his practice mute, a metal device that fits over the bridge and dampens the volume. He always uses it when he plays in the middle of the night, like he is now.

John glances at the clock. A little after 2AM. He doubts Sherlock had even come to bed.

He shrugs into his robe and shuffles out into the kitchen. Sherlock is facing the window, as usual, and John doesn’t want to startle him, so he leans in the doorway, watching him in the glow of the fairy lights Mrs. Hudson hangs on the mantel every December, which they both secretly enjoy. He listens to the sad, sweet melody, until it comes to an end, and Sherlock lets the instrument drop from his shoulder.

“Hey,” John says quietly, moving now to sink into his chair.

Sherlock turns around, a look of guilt crossing his face. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not really,” John says, rubbing his hair again. “The melody came into my dream. I knew it was you playing, and kept trying to find you, but every time I went into a new room, it seemed like you had just moved out of it.”

“You usually don’t wake up when I use the mute.” Sherlock leans over and brushes John’s mouth with a soft kiss of apology. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing him again before dropping back into his own chair, resting the violin and bow across his lap, and stretching his legs forward.

“It’s okay,” John says truthfully. “I never mind listening to you play. That one was a bit sad, yeah?”

“It’s ‘Ase’s Death,’ from Peer Gynt.”

“Ah.” John smiles. “I suppose that would have to be sad, then. Beautiful, though.”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock’s fingers form silent notes across the strings of the instrument, his head leaning back in the chair, his eyes on the ceiling.

John leans forward over his knees, his expression soft, concerned. “Come to bed?”

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. “Not yet. It’s a little busy up here tonight.” He puts a palm to his forehead, then slides his hand back through his own hair and lifts his head to look at John. “I can play you back to sleep, though? That one lullaby that always works?”

“Honestly, Sherlock,” John says as he pulls himself to his feet, “if you ever tell anyone that you can make me fall asleep by playing a lullaby, I will throw that violin out the window.” Sherlock smiles, a soft chuckle. “You know, maybe I should try playing you to sleep instead.”

Now Sherlock laughs outright. “With what? Is your clarinet around here somewhere?”

John points at the violin. “No, with that.” He grins mischievously.

Sherlock stares up at him, instinctively hunching over the instrument. “Have you ever played the violin before?”

John shrugs. “How hard can it be?”

“Really hard, actually. It’s one of the most difficult orchestral instruments to learn how to play properly.”

John waves a hand dismissively. “Tosh. I’ve seen five-year-olds play them. Come on, let me try it.”

“Fine. We’ll attract all the feral cats in the neighborhood, shall we? Stand up straight,” Sherlock says exasperatedly, pushing John’s shoulders back a little. He moves around behind John’s right shoulder and holds the bow out in front of him. “Thumb here, four fingers on the other side.” John takes it from him and tries to mimic the position. “Here… just…” Sherlock mutters, repositioning a couple of fingers, and sighing in despair.

He moves to John’s left side and settles the padded shoulder rest across his collarbone, then lifts John’s left hand to the violin’s neck. “No, like this,” he tuts, turning John’s wrist and moving it under the fingerboard so he’s holding it correctly. He stands back and regards John, who looks like he’s afraid to move.

Sherlock rolls his eyes closed. “Okay, just relax. Move it around under your chin until it feels right.”

John tries to settle his jaw against the black chinrest. “I don’t think this is ever going to feel right.” He pulls the violin away for a second and looks down at it, then tucks it back against his neck. “They couldn’t have made the chinrest out of something soft? It’s not terribly comfortable.”

Sherlock just glares at him. John giggles. “Sorry, sorry. I’m good. Now what?”

Sherlock turns his palms up and raises his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Just try drawing the bow across some strings. We’ll see what happens.”

John lifts the bow and pulls it to the right, across each string in turn until he runs out of horsehair, then moves it back across, and does it again. “Hey!” he smiles dumbly, looking inordinately proud of himself. “I played something!” He saws the bow over the strings a few more times.

“Very good!” Sherlock says brightly and full of sarcasm. “Are we done?”

He holds out his hands to take the instrument back.

But then something very strange happens.

John repositions the violin under his chin, adjusts his grip on the bow, arranges the fingertips of his left hand carefully over the strings, and plays the first three notes of Brahms’ Lullaby.

Then he plays them again.

Then he plays the next seven notes.

Sherlock stares at him, dumbfounded. His hands fall slowly to his sides.

John continues the simple, familiar melody, albeit haltingly and a bit off pitch. He’s clearly a beginner, hitting an entirely wrong note now and then, playing eighth notes at the same speed as every other note, running out of bow during some stretches. But he corrects himself when he can and eventually makes it all the way through the song, finishing with a long, clear final D.

He takes a deep breath and lowers the instrument, turning to smile at Sherlock, whose eyes have gone a bit wet.

“How…” Sherlock starts, and his voice catches. “I mean… when…?”

John laughs kindly, thinking of how rarely he’s ever able to render Sherlock speechless. “The extra shifts I’ve been taking at work? Some of them were lessons.” He suddenly feels almost shy with embarrassment. “I was going to surprise you on Christmas morning, wrap up my crap music store student violin and let you open it. I’ve even been learning ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas,’ too.” He laughs again when he sees Sherlock’s expression hasn’t changed. “Honestly, I never know what to get you, so…”

Sherlock’s hands fly suddenly to John’s head, pulling him in to a chaste, then affectionate, then passionate kiss. John leans into Sherlock’s embrace, lifting his hands, still holding the bow and violin, to press against Sherlock’s back. After a long moment, Sherlock ends the kiss and rests their foreheads together. They breathe in silence for a second.

“You’re the best gift I could ever ask for, you know,” Sherlock whispers.

“Come to bed?” John asks again, his voice low.

“Oh, yes.”


End file.
